


to all the girls i've loved before

by adreamaloud, daneorange (adreamaloud)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-08-10 21:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/pseuds/adreamaloud, https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/pseuds/daneorange
Summary: in which lexa is a love-letter-writing mess, & clarke seizes a sort of opportunity. this is not a teenage au, sadly, but I hope these aged-up dorks are infuriatingly adorable just the same.





	1. 1 | no need for complications

**Author's Note:**

> this took way too long in my drafts folder. pardon the errors.
> 
> also, yes. this is a 'to all the boys' remix. sort of. it got away from me, but yeah.

 

Something has to be said about the letter in Clarke Griffin’s hand, but all Lexa could manage is a soundless howl, which she feels more than she hears. It starts as a deeply drawn breath that somehow manages to block her throat, snatching the air out of her lungs.

It is a beautiful day, with the wind cool and the sky cloudless – the perfect sort of day to run into Clarke, actually, although Lexa believes she wouldn’t have survived _that_ white tank top on Clarke, anyhow.

The next thing Lexa knows, she’s opening her eyes to Clarke Griffin’s face hovering just above hers, brows knit in confusion and concern.

“Are you all right?”

Lexa blinks, disoriented. “Clarke?”

Clarke smiles, offers her hand and motions that she would like to help Lexa up. Lexa had fainted, turns out. Lexa feels her ears grow warmer as Clarke’s hand wraps around hers; if she hadn’t already been so embarrassed, she probably would have fainted a second time.

“You fainted,” says Clarke.

“Sorry,” Lexa replies, dusting herself off. “It happens when it’s warm.”

“You should keep a bottle of water on you.”

“I usually do.” Lexa’s eyes fall on the letter in Clarke’s hand again, and she feels a bead of sweat start rolling down the corner of her brow. She wasn’t lying about the temperature.

“Listen, about this letter—” Clarke lifts the envelope and holds it between the two of them. Lexa tries not to look so panicked, but she steps back anyhow like the thing were radioactive, staring at her unmistakable handwriting.

“Clarke, I—this shouldn’t have-”

“I mean it’s cool, I think it’s flattering, but—”

_Oh god, there’s a but--of course, there’s a but. Clarke must think I’m an idiot. Why had I even written those damned things down anyway, they were disasters waiting to happen—-oh god. What if everything went out? What if--_

“-but I think you write really well. Have you ever considered a writing career?”

Lexa lets a shaky breath out before catching on. “Excuse me?” She takes her letter back gingerly as soon as she is able to still her hands. “Are you—”

“Our office is just a couple of floors above yours, and we’ve been looking for a while, and I think—”

Lexa just has to laugh. Is Clarke going all HR on her and did her embarrassing love letter just serve as her CV? This day couldn’t get weirder if it tried.

“Clarke, I don’t think—”

Lexa feels the rest of that thought dissipate as she sees a familiar swagger in the corner of her eye: Just as she had feared, it’s not just Clarke who got a letter, but her best friend as well.

_Shit._ Lexa catches Anya’s eye for just a _fraction_ of a second, and that’s all it takes for an even bigger panic to grip Lexa’s madly beating heart.

_Quick, do something._ She turns her head, sees Clarke’s mouth half-open in an unspoken question, and it’s like fainting a second time, the way Lexa’s brain empties in that split-second, only she is falling squarely on Clarke’s face, lips first.

_So help me God,_ she just thinks, breaking the kiss and giving Clarke a curt nod before bolting.

 

*

 

Lexa hasn’t always been this helpless with girls; in fact, there used to be a time she was great with them. Comfortable and charming, even. But those days are long gone, and it has been a considerable while since Lexa was with anyone like Costia.

Costia was her last girlfriend. Her first one, actually. It was love at first sight, a made-for-the-movies match-up. They were the stuff of fairy tales; that annoying attractive couple at the school dance.

It was perfect. Lexa had imagined going away to college and sharing an apartment and going home tipsy from a party on a school night, all that jazz. She had imagined the fighting and the struggle through their adjustment years, even.

Lexa had plans.

There’s a quote Lexa hates, but is true anyway. It goes, _When you want to make God laugh, make plans._ Not that Lexa believed God was laughing when Costia died in that car crash, but there were nights so dark that she almost did.

It was in one of these many dark nights that Lexa discovered writing. Putting everything down into words felt a lot like chipping at a wall that was keeping the light out for so long, and eventually, the words came to her easily enough for her to be somewhat good at it.

Her love affair with words led her to a Literature degree, to their college publication, to an internship at the university press.

And then there was Anya.

Anya, who is Costia’s older sister. Anya, who is Lexa’s best friend. Anya, who helped her fill out her university forms and decide among electives; who proofread her college columns before they got sent to her editor; who pushed her to update her CV and get that internship in the first place.

Anya, who was just a friend until that day that Lexa started seeing _Costia_ in her.

Certainly, she owes Anya a huge debt. The least she could do is not fall in love with her.

Right?

 

*

 

And so Lexa decided to keep a secret. Filled her heart with it till her chest threatened to overflow. She and Anya were okay; _no need for complications_ , she reminded herself, even as Anya got lovelier by the day.

She kept on, and kept on—observing Anya from a safe distance, struggling to keep her at arm’s length. She tried to face the other way whenever Anya was being extra wonderful; tried to see the tenderness for what it was: A gesture of friendship, of sisterhood, even.

Except that Anya could get hot. Like, seriously, _if-cheekbones-could-kill, that-facial-structure-might-as-well-murder-me_ sort of hot.

And it drove Lexa _crazy._ Until such a point that she found herself at her desk, with a pen and paper in her hand.

 

*

 

_Dear Anya,_

_Remember when we lost Costia? You drove me home from the hospital because you were worried about me. And you were probably right: I was in no condition to ride my bike or even board a bus. You didn’t have to endure the wreck that I was but you took me on and saw me through—not only that night, but in the days, the weeks, the months to come._

_That’s what you’ve always been to me, all these years: My compass. You’ve been the guiding hand that showed me the better path. With you around, nothing is impossible to overcome. We are invincible together. You are my best friend._

_Which is why you should never know that I’m in love with you._

_This is the part where I start apologizing: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, and I know it’s even weirder because Costia is your sister. Was. I keep forgetting she isn’t with us anymore, if only because with you around, she seems so alive._

_I see so much of her in you that it’s hard not to be a little in love. Or a lot. It doesn’t matter. I can’t even remember the exact moment the tides shifted. All I know is--just like that, I’m sitting on your couch watching you make us dinner in your kitchen and suddenly I’m seized with an inexplicable constriction inside my rib cage._

_The last time I felt that way was when I first saw Costia enter a room. The feeling is so stark and alarming that I bet no one would quite forget it, should it happen again._

_And there it was._

_So there, I’m sorry I couldn’t keep this in, but I’m not sorry about this feeling. I ask nothing of you apart from your understanding._

_With love and respect,_

_Lexa._

 

*

Hours later, Lexa finds that she is still berating herself for the heretofore unexplained sending of all those letters—she must have mistakenly sent them out with the garbage or whatever. It doesn’t really matter anymore—after all, the letters are out and cannot be taken back.

_Might as well just wait for them to be forgotten,_ she thinks, as she’s walking back to her bike. She has just finished her shift, and she cannot wait to get home, get some beer from the fridge, and sulk some more.

“Well, earlier today I was just hoping to talk about a letter, but now I think we kinda have to talk about that kiss, too.”

_Shit._ Lexa closes her eyes for a brief second—as if in doing so, she will be able to will away the image of Clarke leaning against her bike, her arms crossed.

“Hi Clarke,” she says, breathing out. “How did you—”

“I see you park,” Clarke explains, eyes widening at her belated realization. “I promise I’m not stalking you, or anything.”

“I didn’t even—I wouldn’t imply,” says Lexa. “And um. About your letter.”

“And that kiss.”

Lexa winces. “And that kiss. I can explain--”

“—And I’m sure you can, but I’m guessing it’s going to be a long one, so.” The way Clarke pauses tells Lexa the rest of the sentence is still coming.

“So…?”

“So you better be taking me to dinner.”

Lexa looks around and takes a moment to consider her options. _The afternoon looks like a good one for riding. Might as well._ She steps closer to Clarke, motions for her to move and retrieves a spare helmet. She shrugs as she offers it to Clarke, who looks at it uncertainly.

“You said you wanted to get dinner,” Lexa says, securing the straps of her own helmet as she moves to straddle the seat. “Get on and I’ll take you.”

*

If anyone had told her that she’d get from crushing on Clarke and writing about her in her desk at night, to kissing Clarke and then taking her out to dinner aboard her motorcycle—and in such a short span of time at that—Lexa would have had a good laugh.

She and Clarke aren’t even friends, to begin with, not technically; they just happen to share an office building, a cafeteria and a quadrangle, is all. That, and common parking floors. A common main entrance, a common ground floor reception desk. A common mail room.

_Mail._ Lexa gives herself a mental slap in the face at the memory. _The letter. The kiss. Anya._ She tugs at the strap of her helmet a bit harder than necessary at the thought.

“Lexa?”

_Why does she say my name like that?_ Lexa tries not to appear too obviously flustered. “Hmm?”

“I said, thanks for the helmet.”

“Oh.” Lexa looked down, realizing that Clarke had been gently pushing it against her arm. “Sorry, let me.”

Clarke smiles, shrugging as she hands it over. “You must be hungry.”

“Now that you mention it.”

Lexa enters the restaurant first, choosing a booth in the corner. It’s a semi-busy night, and around them, people huddle quietly over their meals, enveloping them in a mellow buzz. Clarke sits across her and gets comfortable as she surveys the menu.

“So. Why did you kiss me?”

“We’re not even waiting for the fries, huh,” Lexa asks, trying to stall.

“I like to get to the point,” says Clarke. “I mean. Don’t you?”

_I’d like for this dinner to be over and for the ground to open up and swallow me whole._ “Right. So—I’m sorry. That was a panicked move. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“You panicked because I read your letter, so you kissed me?”

“That’s not—it’s not just you. The letter, I meant. I wrote other letters. That got to other people. People who really shouldn’t have received them.”

Clarke lets out a low whistle. “Goddamn, that’s some big trouble you got there.”

“My best friend received her letter.”

“ _Jesus._ ”

“She was my ex-girlfriend’s sister.”

“Oh boy you are _screwed—_ wait. Was?”

Lexa sighs, rubbing at her forehead. “My _dead_ ex-girlfriend’s sister.”

“Shit. I’m so sorry.” Clarke covers her face with both hands—Lexa is almost sure that Clarke is just trying to be polite and has held off laughing, despite everything she’s just said.

“When you approached me—I saw her walking towards us? She—she was also holding a letter. Which was why I kissed you.”

“Whoa—wait. What?”

“I wanted her to think I was already with someone so she won’t—she would think the letter was a mistake.” Hearing the words come out of her mouth put a small pit in the middle of her stomach, and Lexa almost gags audibly. “I’m sorry. That sounded horrible. I didn’t mean for you to be caught up in this.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’m happy to help,” says Clarke, much to Lexa’s relief. _At least she isn’t mad at me, or anything._ “Actually, I—I have a proposal.”

“A proposal?”

“Win-win, I promise,” says Clarke, eyeing their orders as they arrive just in time: Twin burgers and their respective sides, and a milkshake each to boot. “We can keep dating.”

Lexa feels the water clog her airpipe in her surprise, and lets out a cough. “Excuse me?” she asks, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

“Keep up appearances, make it believable for Anya’s sake—I’ll help you.”

Lexa feels her eyes widen as she tries to wrap her head around what Clarke is saying. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” she asks. _What’s in it for her? Why would she do that for me?_ “And in return…?”

“Well, for starters—you pay for this dinner.”

Lexa lets out a laugh—for all this ridiculousness, Clarke sure knows how to put someone at ease. “Okay, done. And then?”

Clarke smiles, taking her time as she digs into her burger and takes a sip from her drink. “I was serious earlier, when I told you I was impressed by your writing.”

Lexa feels her cheeks burning in embarrassment. “Clarke.”

“Do you know what we do at Ark & Ground?”

Lexa blinks. A&G is Clarke’s office, but apart from being a small advertising firm, and the fact that Clarke works there, she knows very little about what they do. “Not really.”

“Basically, we have a set of clients and we write stuff for them,” Clarke explains. “And for a new client, we’re writing things that may be more up your alley.”

Lexa nods slowly, if only to hide the fact that she’s struggling a bit with understanding fully what Clarke is trying to say. “O… kay?”

“Lexa, I’m trying to hire you as a love letter ghost writer.”

“A _what_ now?”

“A love letter ghost writer.”

Lexa scratches the back of her neck at that. “You might want to use a different set of words to fully explain that.”

Clarke laughs at Lexa’s candidness. “Sorry, I can’t be… as _precise._ I’m a recruiter, not a writer.”

“Right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine, you meant no harm. But that’s my ask—I ask that you come write love letters for us. Letters like the one you sent me.”

Lexa takes a moment to consider. “And in return—”

“And in return, I’ll help you with Anya,” Clarke completes for her, stretching her hand out. “Deal?”

_What is there for me to lose?_ Lexa hesitates for a split-second before going in for the shake herself.

“Deal.”

*


	2. love songs for no one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This took a while, I hope it's worth the wait. Enjoy. :)

 

The day Clarke first shows her their informal contract, they are sitting in the cafeteria, having lunch together for the first time. Clarke waits for her by the elevators and eagerly puts her hand out, smiling widely.

“Well?” The way Clarke says it has Lexa sweating. “Won’t you hold my hand?”

Lexa flashes back to that very first day she sees Clarke in the building; she strides in confidently in a white blazer, Macbook tucked under an arm. She’s on the phone, walking briskly but smiling. She may have been in a hurry, but she’s such in a good mood, it’s hard not to smile at the sight of her. In fact, Lexa _was_ smiling when Clarke bumped into her that day.

 _She probably doesn’t even remember that,_ Lexa thinks, still regarding Clarke’s outstretched hand. After a couple more moments waiting, Clarke steps closer and slips said hand slowly into one of Lexa’s back pockets. _I should have taken that hand I should have taken that hand I should have—_

“ _Relax,_ ” Clarke whispers beside her as they fall in step with each other. She’s so close that Lexa can smell the fading scent of the shower gel she must have used that morning, and it makes Lexa dizzy, somewhat. “You want to sell this, don’t you?”

Lexa loosens up considerably at that. _Of course,_ she thinks, for a moment reminded of what this is about in the first place. _It’s just a deal. Just pretend._ Clarke picks a table and puts her lunch bag down with her laptop sleeve. Lexa follows suit, sitting across Clarke and taking a sip from her bottle of water.

“So,” Clarke says, slipping a folder out from under her lunch. “Wanna take a look at our contract?”

Lexa tries to school her expression and watches quietly as Clarke takes out her folder. _She used A &G stationery for this, _she muses, her eyes landing on the text scribbled across it. Clarke’s handwriting is messy but beautiful; effortless, even. Lexa attempts to skim the document without being too obvious about it— _What are these numbered things?_

“Ground rules,” Clarke says, like she’s hearing Lexa talking in her head. “I mean. For your protection too, obviously.”

  _Obviously._ “Sure. I’m down with rules,” says Lexa. “Number one. No kissing.” Lexa blinks, reading it again. “Wait. Did I get that right?”

“Is that protest I hear or—”

“ _No!”_ Lexa blurts out immediately, lest Clarke think she’s disrespecting her boundaries. “I would never—I mean. If that’s rule number one, it stays rule number one.”

Clarke looks at her like she’s wondering if Lexa is having a seizure. “Okay then,” she says eventually. “Good.” And then: “Number two: Hold my hand. And because I’m feeling generous, we won’t call our episode earlier a breach of contract.”

“In my defense, the contract was not yet in force,” Lexa counters.

“You got lucky,” says Clarke, sticking her tongue out. “Number three: Go out to lunch with me. I mean, maybe once in a while… or a week. Once a week?”

“Of course,” says Lexa without skipping a beat. Truth was, she’s seen Clarke eating solo far too many times, and she feels bad for not having approached her before. “Lunch and dinner. If you want.”

Clarke smiles warmly at that. “That would be great,” she just says. “So. Tell me—are you a pictures person?”

“A _what_ person? Sorry?”

“How does your desk look like?”

Lexa blinks. “Is it supposed to—look like anything?”

“We should put up a photo of us on our desks,” says Clarke. “Number four.”

“O…kay.”

“Remind me to change your phone’s wallpaper in a bit. Oh—before I forget. Once a week, I get to ride home with you. On your bike.”

Lexa blinks, thinking about the warmth of Clarke’s arms. “We need to buy you a new helmet,” she offers.

“Let’s go shopping,” Clarke says, beaming at the word. “But before that—here’s the rest of it. Well, most of them are terms for your consultancy.”

“My _consultancy,_ ” Lexa repeats. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“For the purposes of your official contract, yes,” says Clarke. “Our main deliverable is a weekly love letter—sometimes, we’ll need to sit down with clients to get them right, but you can address them to me, if you’re more comfortable that way.”

 _Like that’s going to make it easier,_ Lexa thinks.

“The project has a definite timeline, and it’s culminating—expectedly—on Valentine’s Day. We’re putting up a major love letter exhibit. You’ll do copy work on that as well.”

Lexa flips through both pages quickly—it’s as straightforward as they come. “Can I add an item to the list?”

“Sure thing—it’s negotiable.”

Lexa breathes in, like she’s bracing herself. She doesn’t like thinking about her yearend family gatherings at all, but if she’s getting into this, she might as well put that in. “I need you to plus-one for me at our New Year’s dinner at the end of the year,” she says, before adding a soft: “Can you do that for me?”

Clarke takes a moment before speaking. “Like… a holiday family dinner thing?”

 _Oh. Maybe she has issues with that. I shouldn’t have assumed—_ “Look, you don’t have to do that if you’re not comfortable,” Lexa backtracks, holding her breath for Clarke’s response.

Against all expectations, Clarke smiles even wider. “Are you kidding me? I _love_ holiday gatherings,” she says. “Not to brag but— _parents_ are my specialty. My friends always want me to tag-along to distract theirs. It’s a skill.”

 _Is this girl even for real?_ “O… kay then?” says Lexa, smiling tentatively. “I suppose we’ve covered everything?”

“More or less,” says Clarke, sliding a pen out of a pocket and signing first. She’s still smiling when she turns the paper around and presents it for Lexa’s signature. “There’s an ending clause right here,” she says, pointing to a final paragraph in smaller print, “that says we could terminate the agreement at any time. Provided the terminating party will tell the other the true reason behind doing so. Does that sound fair?”

Lexa shrugs and signs without overthinking. “Sounds fair enough to me,” she says, dotting the ‘I’ of her last name with finality before returning the contract to Clarke. “So.”

“So.”

Clarke slips a hand under Lexa’s on the table and leans in closer to whisper. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a new girlfriend.”

*

It takes Lexa a while to get a hang of Clarke’s clientele; they have very specific needs and quirky demands, considering this rather unusual set-up.

“It’s not that I don’t like it—”

“But?” Lexa bites her lip. Clarke tries to be kind all the time—without her as liaison, Lexa would have quit after her second somewhat unsuccessful attempt. At this point, her bruised ego notwithstanding, Lexa is just thankful that she doesn’t have to parse through the ever-shifting requirements alone.

Clarke brushes against her shoulder lightly, and Lexa holds her breath. _It’s how she is,_ Lexa tries to remind herself gently. _Remember, it’s all pretend._ “But maybe we’ll be a little less Mark Antony speaks to Cleopatra here and more… I don’t know. _Contemporary?_ ”

It takes all of Lexa not to laugh— _so Clarke’s a bit of a history nerd?_ “Shit,” Lexa says, clearing her throat as she opens the letter, scanning through it before refolding it altogether. “That bad?”

“ _Not_ bad,” Clarke corrects her. “Just… out of _tune_? Does that make sense?”

Lexa nods. “Absolutely. Sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. You were just following the brief to the letter. _Literally._ ”

 _Not a reliable strategy all the time_ , Lexa thinks. “Can’t help it—I like rules,” she just says, shrugging. “Even though I knew something was already kind of _off_ when we met him _;_ I just dismissed it as people coming unhinged when in love.”

“I like the phrase ‘controlled abandon’ better,” says Clarke, smiling as she pries the folded note gently from between Lexa’s fingertips. “They can be unhinged in bed, for all I care; I want their letters pitch perfect.”

“Of course.”

“All’s not lost though,” says Clarke says, touching Lexa’s elbow gently. “It’s still a beautiful letter.” Clarke lets a sigh out as she re-reads the note and folds it back into her own pocket. Lexa looks away, trying to hide a blush.

That’s what Lexa loves about working with Clarke—she is always generous with praise, and Lexa’s little writer heart is just a little bit in love with it. _Who am I even kidding,_ Lexa asks herself once, catching herself thinking the thought. _I’m a lot in love with it._

And that’s not even against the rules, not _technically,_ because _technically_ , all she has to do is try not to kiss Clarke—which, to be honest, is a lot harder than expected.

Especially whenever Clarke starts talking with her hands, which is how she gets when she’s talking about the history of letter-writing, or her latest bargain bin book-find, or the list of places she wants to sketch when she has the time after her nth project at A&G—Lexa admits, the attractiveness does get unbearable at times.

“Hello? Earth to Lexa.”

Lexa blinks, startled as she snaps out of it. _Shit._ “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

When Clarke lets out a little laugh, Lexa feels her insides plummet helplessly. “I said, we can still use this letter for the exhibit. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” says Lexa. “That would be great.”

“Come on. It’s my turn to get dinner this time, yes?” Clarke offers, standing up and slipping her hand into Lexa’s effortlessly. “So. Mediterranean?”

“Whatever you want,” says Lexa, smiling at her.

*

Clarke rides with her, often. At first, Lexa was nervous about it; what if they met an accident? What if she gets so distracted by Clarke pressed up so close to her that her nerves actually _kill_ them?

“You won’t,” was all Clarke had to say. Since riding together that first time, right after the letters got out, Lexa couldn’t get the memory of Clarke with her arms wrapped around her out of her mind. It came upon her like a haunting, waking her up in the middle of the night; a warm presence, right around her torso, heavy where Clarke’s chest met her back.

 _God damn it,_ Lexa would curse, getting up from that sweaty dream, if only to splash cold water upon her face.

But then, upon Clarke’s insistence, these motorbike rides assumed a kind of regularity, and before Lexa knew it, she was taking Clarke on afternoon rides at least once a week, or every other day, at most.

“New girlfriend?”

Lexa almost drops her wrench at the unexpected voice walking into her garage. She’s spending her Saturday morning doing maintenance, and she isn’t exactly expecting visitors—especially not this one.

“Hey Anya,” Lexa greets, not looking up from her work. “What’s up?”

“You don’t get to answer my question with another question,” Anya replies. Lexa can hear her take a couple of steps closer, before stopping just behind the bike.

“Sorry,” says Lexa. “Force of habit.”

“So, you get a new girlfriend and you just… disappear? Where did this girl even come from?”

“Her name is Clarke Griffin, and she works at A&G, we share a building, a pantry, a parking lot and a quadrangle—”

“Well, I’m glad you know her as well as your building administrator—”

Now, Lexa drops her wrench intentionally as a warning, getting up and wiping her hands against front of her tank top. “You will not speak of her like that,” she says sternly, meeting Anya’s eye for the first time that morning, only to be taken aback by the softness that meets her, forcing her to relent in kind. “Sorry. I’m just—I haven’t had my coffee yet,” she lied.

“Not my intention to offend,” says Anya, backing down herself. “It’s just that—one minute I was reading your letter, the next you’re kissing this other girl—”

Lexa’s heart skips a beat at the mention of the letter. _Not now._ “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, cutting Anya’s speech short. “Is there anything else?”

Anya takes a beat before, “No. There’s nothing else.” Lexa tries not to think about how defeated she sounded, and how she left without another word. She’d like to believe that there is no disappointment in Anya’s face, not when she turned away just in time to have probably missed it.

Lexa tries not to think about it.

*

That afternoon, she picks up her phone to call Clarke, who answers after two rings.

“Hey Clarke,” Lexa says. “Would you like to go somewhere?”

“Like, right now?”

“Yeah. You wanna?”

There’s a brief pause, and Lexa holds her breath as Clarke decides on the other end of the line. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Clarke arrives at her doorstep about half an hour later, an adorable picnic basket in one hand. Lexa eyes it with amusement, ultimately unable to keep a grin from breaking across her face.

“You said to bring picnic paraphernalia,” said Clarke pouting. “This is the most _picnic_ I can go.”

“You’re perfect, Clarke,” says Lexa, stepping out and closing the door behind her. “You ready?” She hands Clarke her helmet, before fastening hers.

“Where’s my motorcycle helmet?” Clarke asks.

“Won’t need them today,” Lexa says, leading Clarke toward their garage and pointing to two rather old but still serviceable bicycles leaning against the wall. Lexa watches as the look on Clarke’s face morphs from confusion to surprise to terror.

“What—are these _safe_?” asks Clarke.

Lexa laughs, moving to straddle one of the bikes. “Of course they are,” she says, moving about to test the creaky metal. “See? All good.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at her before approaching her bike cautiously. “ _Fine_. Where are you taking me on these?”

Lexa winks at her before starting to pedal slowly down their lawn. “It’s a secret—for now. Think you can withstand a bit of mystery, Ms Griffin?”

Clarke sticks her tongue out at her before getting on her bike, knees wobbly. “Lead the way then, _commander._ ”

Lexa, torn between blushing and smirking, pedals on anyhow, feeling like a teenager in one of those coming-of-age TV shows in the mid-aughts, with their bicycles and dirt roads and afternoons full of possibilities. _Ah, to be that young again,_ Lexa just thinks, crossing Clarke’s path playfully—a move met with much yelling and cursing.

“Watch where you’re going!” Clarke warns, a half-shriek more than anything. “I’m trying to fucking drive here!”

Lexa laughs, watching Clarke’s wobbly bike handles. “You’re a shitty driver!” she yells back. The road is awful and dusty, but it has Lexa feeling so fond, recalling the many times she used to go into the forest for the quiet.

And of course, there’s always the _lake._

“You’re fucking kidding me,” is how Clarke greets the lake, that first time. She jumps off her bike so fast in her child-like excitement, tossing it aside kind of recklessly. It clatters so loudly that Lexa worries it might fall apart then and there. “There’s a lake right in the middle of this town and no one ever told me?”

Lexa shrugs, walking her bike toward a nearby tree. “Maybe you never asked,” she says, sitting on a nearby rock to shake the dust off her legs. She watches Clarke as she slips her shoes off before approaching the water slowly and dipping her toes in. “That’s going to be—”

“Cold!” Clarke shrieks, her loud laugh ringing in the trees. “Get your ass down here!”

Lexa laughs right back, getting comfortable on her perch. “Nah, I think I’ll sit this one out.”

“You’re a killjoy, you know that?” says Clarke, sticking her tongue out at Lexa, picking her shoes up on the walk back. “You’ve never taken a dip here?”

“Oh, I’ve taken lots,” says Lexa. “The water’s warmer other times of the year.”

“How come I’ve never been here before?”

“I’m as surprised as you are, honestly. We used to go here all the time.”

Clarke quiets for a moment, like she’s considering her next words. “With Anya and Costia, you mean?” she asks softly, resting her chin on her raised knee. _Ah,_ Lexa just thinks. _Of course._

“Sorry, it’s just—if you don’t want to talk about them, that’s cool. I’m just curious, I don’t mean to overstep.”

Lexa feels the lump in her throat get heavy. _Not like I could evade this question forever._ “It’s okay,” she says finally, swallowing hard as Clarke lays a hand gently upon her arm. “It’s about time, actually.”

“Only if you’re comfortable.”

When Lexa closes her eyes, she sees Costia and Anya laughing in the lake, drenched to the waist, drops of water on their skin glinting under the sun. It was the summer she and Costia turned sixteen, and she remembers how vivid the colors of those days were, the rosy afternoons and the fiery orange sunsets bleeding into each other, one after the other.

“We were kids together,” says Lexa finally. “And then we were _not-_ kids together, you get what I mean?” Clarke nods but says nothing, prompting Lexa to continue. “There was always three of us: Costia, Anya and I. We were inseparable.”

“Even when you and Costia got together?”

Lexa is surprised to hear herself laugh a little at the memory. “ _Especially_ when Costia and I got together,” she says, watching the look of confusion wash across Clarke’s face. “Anya was… fiercely protective of our _relationship_ —not just Costia. It was actually kind of funny. Sometimes,” she adds. “So when Costia died, our devastation… it was _intense._ ”

A long silence falls upon them, before Clarke musters a soft, “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for you.”

Lexa sighs. She tries to think about that portion of her life less and less—it still makes her sad a lot. “I’ve always imagined that Costia was the boat, and she was the one who kept Anya and I afloat. So with her gone—”

“You felt like you drowned,” Clarke completes for her, reaching out to touch Lexa’s knee.

“Anya and I, we were survivors. We swam as hard as we could, until we got to the shore, and when we got there, I sort of looked at her and it was—she was _there,_ and she had a little of Costia in her, you know? I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Hence, the letter.”

“It’s a lonely people thing,” Lexa says, voice growing soft that she feels Clarke move even closer, her face attentive. The angle of this sun does things to Clarke’s eyes—it’s like Lexa can see the lake dancing off them in the distance. Lexa feels her breath get caught in her throat.

“You get it, don’t you?” Lexa asks again. “Lonely people pick up a pen, and take it from there.”

Clarke opens her mouth as if to say something, only to end up closing it again without a word. Lexa can’t help but be mesmerized by the sight. _She’s too close,_ Lexa thinks, unable to focus on anything other than Clarke’s lips.

 _This is dangerous ground._ “Clarke, I.”

“You what?” Clarke asks, just as softly, and Lexa feels herself drawn in. This close, Clarke already feels _warm—_ a stark contrast to the cool breeze from the lake.

“You okay, Lex?”

 _No, I’m not okay,_ Lexa wants to say. _I want to kiss you._

The words are almost on the way out when Lexa is distracted by a giant drop of water landing squarely in the middle of Clarke’s nose. _Rain._ “Uh-oh,” Lexa says instead, pushing herself up from the forest floor and gathering Clarke with her.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

Lexa laughs, half-running toward her bike. “We could still outrun it,” she says, watching Clarke get on hers. “You think we could?”

Clarke starts pedaling, smirking at Lexa. “Only one way to find out.”

When the rain finally catches up with them, they are thankfully already out of the dirt road. It saves them a lot of grief from the mud, sure, but they still get drenched anyhow on the mad dash back to Lexa’s house. Clarke laughs all the way through, criss-crossing with Lexa playfully this time, and Lexa does her best not to crash while staring at how Clarke’s wet shirt clings to her body so damn closely.

 _Well, fuck,_ Lexa just thinks, trying to steady her shaky knees and telling herself it’s just her joints getting cold.

By the time they get home, they’re already soaked through and through, and there is little else they could do apart from taking off their wet, dirty shoes at the door.

“Sorry,” Lexa says, offering Clarke a towel. “That did not go as expected.”

Clarke shakes the water out of her hair messily, still grinning. “Are you kidding me?” she says, rubbing the towel into her hair vigorously to get all the water out. “That was _exactly_ how I’d hoped it would go.”

“You’re nuts, Clarke,” says Lexa, watching a puddle form around Clarke’s bare feet. “You’ll get sick in those wet clothes, we should get you some dry ones.”

“Would you?” When Lexa looks back up, Clarke has already wrapped her hair in a towel. “And since we’re already having this conversation—may I please also use your shower?”

Lexa feels her heart drop to the floor. “Uh—sure?” she manages eventually, moving after she finally remembers _where_ her shower is. “Sorry. That should have been the first thing I offered, I—”

“ _Lexa,_ ” says Clarke, stepping closer carefully. “Relax.” When she puts a warm hand on Lexa’s shirt, Lexa remembers she’s just as wet as Clarke is. _That didn’t sound right,_ Lexa tells herself, but she pushes the thought out of her head immediately, because _reasons._

“I _am_ relaxed,” Lexa lies.

That draws a laugh out of Clarke, who drums her fingers softly against Lexa’s chest. “Sure you are,” she says. “I can feel your heart.”

 _My heart. This girl is going to be the death of me._ Lexa breathes out slowly. “Sorry,” she says. “It’s been a while.”

“Since a girl asked to use your shower?” Clarke teased.

Lexa laughs, still nervous. “Don’t make fun.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says. “I promise to shower quickly.”

“No, take your time, it’s—it’s quite all right. Don’t mind me,” Lexa says, stepping aside and pointing toward the door at the end of the hall. “It’s straight ahead, I’ll go get your dry clothes.”

“Thanks,” says Clarke, and Lexa ducks into her bedroom without even waiting for Clarke to disappear into the bathroom. _Oh god,_ she thinks, picking a fresh set of shirt and shorts from her closet while trying to block out the image of Clarke taking her clothes off in her shower—

_This girl is going to kill me._

Lexa walks over to the shower, dry clothes in her hand, listening to the sound of water running. _Yeah, she’s definitely naked in there._ She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment.

And then suddenly, the water stops. And before Lexa can even compose herself, the door is opening and out comes Clarke, her hair wet, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

_Dying. Dead. This girl has succeeded._

“Oh,” says Clarke, amused. “Sorry, I should have taken the clothes _before_ I went in—”

“My fault,” says Lexa, keeping her face turned as she hands over the clothes. “If you need me—I’ll be over there. Far away.”

“Far away,” Clarke just repeats. Lexa doesn’t have to look at her to realize that she’s laughing.

“Don’t make fun,” says Lexa, trying to hide a smile as she walks away, pretending her knees are still working.

*

By the time Clarke gets out of the bathroom a second time, Lexa has already managed to haul herself into some dry clothes herself, before heading into the kitchen to prepare hot tea. And though she already senses Clarke approaching, when she looks up, nothing quite prepares her for the sight that is Clarke in a borrowed shirt, walking around her house with her just-showered hair.

“Hey,” Lexa greets, clearing her throat. “Good shower?”

“Mhmm,” says Clarke, and when she slips beside Lexa effortlessly, that’s when Lexa realizes that Clarke had skipped the _shorts_ entirely.

_Mother of God._

Lexa tries not to stare, but Clarke catches her eye wandering anyway, and when she looks at Clarke, she’s grinning knowingly. “ _Very_ good,” she just says, lip curling over the rim of the cup that she takes from the counter.

Trying to hide behind her own mug, Lexa tries to keep her hand steady and unshaking, or at least, not too obviously. “I’m—uh, glad. I guess,” she says, before downing the rest of her tea too quickly and stashing the mug back into the sink. “You hungry?”

“A bit,” says Clarke. “What’s in the fridge?”

To be honest, not much—Lexa wasn’t really expecting visitors, and she’s a bit embarrassed she doesn’t have much to offer. “An unimpressive selection, I’m afraid,” says Lexa. “Want to order in? My treat—an apology for getting you all rain-drenched and what-not.”

Clarke takes her tea to the living room and sits on the sofa, bare leg curled under her, the other stretched out from beyond the hem of Lexa’s oversized shirt. Just _thinking_ about the whole situation happening in Lexa’s periphery—she’ll be damned if she ever gets caught staring again—still kind of makes her insides tingly anyhow, it’s maddening.

“Sounds lovely,” says Clarke. “Pizza and wings?”

 Lexa just nods, dialing delivery on her phone. _Pizza and wings it is,_ she just thinks.

_What could possibly go wrong?_

*


	3. between you and me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke attends a Vine holiday tradition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, this work is definitely still alive. Sorry for the wait and I hope you enjoy. PS: Clarke POV! :)

 

 

Clarke remembers the first time she was in Lexa’s bathroom—it was after  _that_  rainy afternoon bike ride. Going in, Clarke had not known what to expect out of such an out-of-the-blue activity; truth be told, she hadn’t really pegged the girl for spontaneity, but then again, there she was, wasn’t she: half-naked inside Lexa’s shower, and soaked to the bone from  _rain_.  

_How on earth did I get here?_ Clarke remembers asking herself as she stood in front of Lexa’s mirror, feeling strangely  _excited._ Which was admittedly a weird thing to feel in a stranger’s bathroom. 

_But Lexa is not a stranger,_ Clarke reminded herself, allowing herself a little laugh at the realization: Lexa had surprised her. Clarke had come expecting a quiet afternoon stroll, or a work consult regarding some of the letters they had been working on at the time—anything but the playful ride to the lake, and the downpour that followed.  

_Perhaps I had underestimated Lexa’s knack for surprises,_ Clarke thought, surveying Lexa’s bathroom. That time, there was no surprise—of course, Lexa’s bathroom would be unsurprisingly sparse. It had nothing but a single set of toothbrush, toothpaste, facial wash and liquid soap by the sink, and a single set of shampoo, conditioner and soap right beside the shower knob.  

Everything was simple, unassuming and  _ready_ —pretty much like Lexa. Everything also smelled pretty damn good—much like Lexa as well.  

Since then, Clarke has been to Lexa’s bathroom for countless times, with each time getting less awkward than the one before it. These days, she can even finish taking a shower without once overthinking the fact that she is  _naked_ inside Lexa’s bathroom.  

(Frankly, that took a while to master.) 

Not that anyone could blame Clarke—in fact, some days are harder than others, when it comes to remembering that all of this is only pretend. They had fallen into such a comfortable rhythm together that it gets difficult sometimes to parse this as mere friendship.  

After all, it is not beyond Clarke to fall for pretty girls, much less girls that look like Lexa.  

“Clarke? Are you okay in there?” 

Clarke blinks at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, slightly jarred as she remembers where she is: In the bathroom at  _the Vines,_ and she must have been inside for a while, because now Lexa is knocking at the door, already worried.  _Shit._   _Not today, she doesn’t need more anxiety today._  

“Sorry!” she says, quickly opening the door and stepping out. “I was just—sorry. I zoned out.” 

Lexa chews at her lip, averting her gaze. “Are you—you’re nervous. Have you changed your mind? Am I—am I forcing you into this? God, I shouldn’t have insisted, this shouldn’t have been part of the contract, it was—” 

“Hey. Slow down.” Clarke takes a deep breath as she puts her hand lightly upon Lexa’s chest, heart thumping wildly underneath.  _Oh boy._ “Inhale.” Clarke waits to catch Lexa’s eye and holds her gaze until she follows, her chest rising as the air enters it. “Then exhale.” 

Under her palm, Lexa relaxes considerably. Clarke understands how the holidays can be stressful to some, and she has definitely seen Lexa stressed, but she has not quite seen anything like this. 

And that’s not even to say that the holidays at the Vines seem to be outwardly stressful—in fact, it  _isn’t,_  and it has Clarke confused and pleasantly surprised at the same time.  _Why is Lexa so worried about this?_ she wondered.  

“Don’t worry, okay?” Clarke soothes her, rubbing her shoulders for good measure. “It’s just Christmas. We got this.” 

* 

The house is sparsely but deliberately decorated for the occasion—an accent hung here and there, a splash of color in a corner—and it tells Clarke a whole lot about the people in the Vine household in a  _snapshot_ than Lexa ever has in any of their conversations.  

The front door swings open, and Clarke follows Lexa as she walks back out to the living room. A round of laughter rings in the air— _they’re here—_ and just like that, Clarke feels the hole in the pit of her stomach get a little bit wider.  

“And  _you_ must be Clarke.” Clarke blinks as the man—broad-shouldered, built like a warrior, probably made of concrete—approaches her, smile on his face softening the rest of him as he extends his hand to Clarke in greeting. “Hi. I’m Lincoln—”  

“—Lexa’s cousin, yes, she talks about you,” Clarke completes for him, relaxing considerably. Lexa has always been fond of Lincoln, constantly referring to him as her brother instead of cousin—a reference perhaps to how they had been practically raised together like siblings. “I’m Clarke. As you already know.” 

“Right,” Lincoln replies, smile getting wider as he turns to introduce the rest of his family. “This is my wife, Octavia, and—where’s Aden?” 

Octavia laughs. “Checking out the  _goods,_ ” she says, tilting her head toward the kitchen and smiling at Clarke. “Lovely to meet you, Clarke.” 

“You, too,” she says. And then, unable to resist her curiosity: “The goods?” 

“Oh, he’s a fan of Indra’s cooking,” says Lincoln, inhaling deeply and absently rubbing his belly. “I mean, who isn’t?” 

Clarke follows their lead and breathes in.  _Oh wow,_ she just thinks.  _Something’s definitely good in the kitchen._  

“We should probably follow Aden then,” says Lexa finally, looking more relaxed than she’s ever been since they drove in this morning. She sides up to Clarke, casually slipping an arm around her shoulder, half-enveloping Clarke in warmth. “You okay?” she asks under her breath. 

Clarke waits for Lincoln and Octavia to take a few steps into the kitchen before replying just as softly, “I am. Are you?” She relaxes in Lexa’s hold and leans in closer, so close that Lexa’s reply almost feels like a kiss in her ear. 

“Getting better,” says Lexa softly. “Thanks.” 

Clarke tries not to shiver too visibly at the gesture. These days, it gets harder and harder, to draw the line between pretend and… well, not pretend.  _Lexa’s a friend,_ she reminds herself.  _And she’s counting on you to hold up your end of the deal._  

The deal: This plus-one holiday adventure in exchange for Lexa’s work at her exhibit in February.  _Easy,_ Clarke thought.  _I’d do it as a friend, even._ Holidays were Clarke’s thing, after all; she’d spent much of her childhood holidays jumping from one party to the next with her own parents and their friends, back in the day.  

So, this? Not a big deal. Getting through it masquerading as Lexa’s girlfriend, however, is another complicated layer entirely that she would rather not get into at this time. 

By the time they enter the kitchen, the smell of Indra’s cooking pushes all thought right out of Clarke’s mind.  

“That smells delicious, Indra,” says Clarke, coming to her senses.  

Indra looks up from her pot and smiles. “Would you like a taste?” she asks, and Clarke’s feet are on their way before her mouth could form an answer. True enough, the stew tastes as hypnotizing as it smells; in fact, it has everyone in the kitchen under its richly flavored spell. 

“Oh— _wow,_ ” Clarke whispers, licking the corner of her lips and opening her eyes—she hadn’t even noticed that she’s closed them in the first place.  

“Yeah,” says Lexa, bumping her hip lightly with hers. “My mother’s cooking does that a lot.” 

“I don’t know how you guys managed to keep your weights,” says Clarke, looking around to check if everybody’s just been as entranced as she was—and they were, Aden included. “I’d probably never stop eating.” 

“Good thing we’re just starting,” says Indra, taking the big bowl and proceeding into the dining room. The rest of them follow with their respective assignments: Plates and cutlery for Lexa, glasses for Lincoln and Octavia, and Clarke with the platter of vegetables.  

They are in the middle of a spirited discussion of Christmas stews past when the knock comes. Clarke turns to Lexa, paling considerably as she slowly turns to face Indra. A quiet falls on the table suddenly, leaving only Aden’s noisy chewing to fill the air. Clarke looks around to catch Lincoln and Octavia’s similarly confused faces.  _Was anyone expecting anyone else?_  Clarke wonders.  

“Mom,” Lexa asks finally, just as Indra finishes chewing.  

“Hm?” Indra just says. “That must be Anya at the door.” 

_Anya._ Clarke feels the exact moment that Lexa’s heart falls to the floor, and she feels her own face pale in kind. Lexa must have forgotten to tell Indra, or perhaps had been hoping not to discuss this tiny bit of development at all.  

Lincoln clears his throat. “Would you like me to get the door?” 

Lexa is up before Lincoln could even finish wiping his lips. “I’ll do it,” she just says, casting a look at Clarke that Clarke ultimately cannot read.  

_Shit,_ Clarke thinks, _This is going south way too soon._ She takes a deep breath, turns to Indra and smiles. “So. Has Lexa shown any interest in cooking at all?” 

“My Lexa? Never,” says Indra, good-naturedly. “The poor thing can burn hotdogs unsupervised, last time I checked.” 

“My father was a better cook than my mother,” Clarke volunteers. “Before he passed, we used to have huge holiday cookouts in our backyard. Tasted a lot better than it smelled, though.” 

Indra looks at her in understanding. “How is your mother these days?” 

“Vacationing with her sisters,” says Clarke, noting a faint twitch in her chest. She and her mother had had to tweak their holiday rituals since her dad died. “It’s easier that way.” 

The front door closes, and they are all jolted back to the dinner table. Indra takes the lead in welcoming the guest, standing to approach. “Look who’s here,” she says, voice fond. 

Clarke turns her head, hoping to catch Lexa’s eye, but the first thing she sees is Anya, regarding her with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Clarke tries to shrug it off, powering through the awkward feeling in her chest with a smile of her own. Finally, Lexa emerges from behind Anya, hands in her pockets, eyes on the floor as she returns to her seat without a word. 

“Good to see you, it’s been  _ages,_ ” says Lincoln, breaking their hug and patting Anya squarely on her shoulders. “What have you been up to?” 

Anya takes the seat beside him, easy and casual like she’s been taking that same seat for  _years._ Clarke tries to ignore the pit forming in her stomach upon recognizing such familiarity.“Oh you know,” says Anya, eyeing Lexa. “A bit of everything here and there.” 

“Lexa has been remiss in updating us about your endeavors,” Indra says. 

“We’ve both been busy,” says Anya immediately, before excitedly appending: “Is  _that_  this year’s stew?” 

Indra’s question is as good as forgotten as the conversation instantly evolves into one about the brunch spread, with Lincoln and Octavia happily chiming in with their praises, and Anya asking Aden every now and then about school and toys and the entire table laughing at Lincoln’s jokes. 

“Don’t encourage him,” Octavia warns in jest. “He’ll think that he’s funny.” 

“I  _am_  a funny guy,” Lincoln asserts, raising his hand to receive Anya’s high-five. 

Everything is just so…  _comfortable,_ and Clarke can’t help but think about all the  _years_ that have gone into this easy banter.  _How many Christmases has Anya spent at this table,_ she wonders, eyes drifting toward Lexa, who has been quietly focusing on finishing her meal.  

“He’s not that bad, O,” says Anya. “Besides, it’s Christmas.” 

Octavia rolls her eyes. “ _Fine,_  but this is on you, Anya.” 

“Your jokes better be funny from now on brother, because I am vouching for you!” 

Lincoln’s laugh bellows above all, and this round goes for quite some time. Clarke sneaks a peek at Indra, whose smile looks a bit tempered.  _Is she worried about Lexa?_ Clarke wonders, because god knows she’s worried about Lexa, too.  

And just then, Lexa clears her throat. “Anybody up for some coffee and dessert?” she asks, though she doesn’t really wait for the answers before disappearing into the kitchen with her plate.  

Clarke takes that as her cue to take her leave as well, politely slipping away from the table with a soft, “Be right back. With cake, hopefully.” She winks at Aden to lighten the moment up, and thankfully, Aden responds with a small, giddy laugh. 

In the kitchen, Clarke catches Lexa braced against the sink, shoulders slumped. Clarke approaches her slowly, sliding beside her with a soft, “Are you all right?” 

Lexa breathes in deeply before replying, “Yeah, I’m just—I wasn’t expecting Anya to come this year.” 

Clarke reaches out tentatively and wraps her hand around Lexa’s wrist. “I’m sorry,” she just says, for the lack of anything better to say. “How can I help?” 

A quiet beat passes before Lexa slips her hand into Clarke’s. “It’s fine, Clarke. You’re doing really well.” And then, looking Clarke in the eye, Lexa tries a smile. “Thank you.” It looks still a bit pained, like Lexa were straining herself, but Clarke feels her gut do a little flip anyhow.  _Really, Griffin? Now?_ she scolds herself. 

Snapping out of it, Clarke looks away first, clearing her throat. “We should—” 

“The coffee—” says Lexa, scratching at the back of her neck.  

“I promised Aden cake,” says Clarke, and Lexa moves past her to open the refrigerator door, allowing her face to be slightly illuminated. The sight does strange things to Clarke right then. 

The moment is broken by Indra coming into the kitchen. “Did you find the cake? I think it’s in the—” 

“Got it,” Lexa calls from behind the refrigerator door, emerging with a big yellow box in her hand. “This one, right?” 

“ _Yes,_ ” says Indra, a little excited. And then, turning to Clarke: “I had to be on a waitlist to get this.” 

“A  _waitlist?_ ” asks Clarke. “This must be one hell of a cake.” 

“Only one way to find out,” Indra replies, stepping out of the kitchen, back into the dining room.  

The table quiets down as they watch in full attention as Aden takes his first bite. The cake is essentially frozen, and is basically ice cream interspersed with chiffon and cream and topped with mangoes. Aden smiles hugely as he licks the icing off his fork. 

“Well?” Lincoln asks, mock sternly. “Your verdict is awaited, sir.” 

Aden tries to put a serious face on, and Clarke almost falls off her chair, thoroughly charmed and enamored. “Well,” he begins, staring at the rest of the cake still on the table. “I think it’s the best cake ever.” 

Indra’s the first to start laughing. “That’s what you said last year, honey,” she says. 

“That’s because Christmas cakes here are always the best cakes, ever,” Aden insists.  

“Well, then—the verdict’s in,” says Anya, reaching for the cake. “Suppose I should get some, too.” 

Clarke splits the last slice with Lexa, now visibly more relaxed, especially since Lincoln and Anya have stepped out for a smoke. After they finish up, Clarke takes the plates and volunteers to help in the washing, following Indra into the kitchen.  

It’s a quiet ritual—one that Clarke knows quite well. She was on dishwashing duty all the time, after all, in all those other gatherings. She’s used to working side by side with different aunts and cousins’ girlfriends, for starters. Sure she can work with Indra, now.  

“Thanks for having me over. It was a beautiful brunch,” says Clarke, settling beside Indra.  

“You’re always welcome,” says Indra. “Whoever Lexa loves, we love as well.”  

Clarke bites her tongue at that word.  _Love._ “Thank you,” she just says, trying to keep up. “Lexa is wonderful and beautiful, inside and out.” 

Indra grows quiet for a moment, though her smile stays on throughout. “She is,” she replies. And then, “She has told you about Costia, I assume?” 

Clarke tries to hold on tighter to the plate in her hand, afraid that it may slip from her grasp in her surprise. “Yes,” she says, nodding. “We’ve talked about Costia.” She takes care not to append  _and Anya,_ because it’s obviously still not her place. “She must have been so lovely. I would have loved to meet her.” 

“Gone too soon,” Indra says wistfully. “I’m just glad you and Lexa are—the two of  you look like you’re well together, hm? Like you’re complements. I hope you don’t take this wrongly but—I didn’t think Lexa would smile that way again.” 

“Smile in what way again?” Clarke asks.  

“Like the way she smiles at you,” says Indra. “After Costia, it was palpable—it was like a light went out, and I—well. I was afraid it wasn’t coming back on.” 

Clarke tries to choose her words carefully, her stomach heavy with a deep sort of  _feeling_ that she cannot unpack just yet.  _Not here,_ she tells herself, wiping and wiping at the plate that Indra has given to her a while ago.  

“I—um,” she falters, swallowing hard. Indra had sounded so  _hopeful_ —the kind of hope that is reserved for something  _real._ It sickens Clarke somewhat. “We’re just doing our best,” she ends up saying, stowing the thoroughly dried plate away and reaching for Indra’s newly washed one. “We’re taking it slow, day by day.” 

Indra nods. “As you should.” They let the water run in the background for a bit, filling the silence in between as they approach the end of their pile. As Indra finishes, she shakes the water out of her hands, and wipes them in a nearby dishtowel before setting it on Clarke’s shoulder gently. “I’m thankful for you, Clarke,” she says. “You’re good for her.” 

It echoes in her brain painfully as she finishes off the task, well after Indra’s left the kitchen.  

_Am I?_  

* 

Clarke decides to take a walk in the yard to shed the weight of her conversation with Indra when she overhears Lexa speaking with Anya in a corner, just out of sight. Lexa is speaking in a strained tone—Clarke recognizes her anger and exasperation all at once—whereas Anya’s tone is more calm and placating, but not apologetic. Clarke tries to not listen in—it feels like she’s done enough monstrous things for a day—but she can’t help but catch snippets of the conversation: 

_“I had no choice—you wouldn’t talk to me.”_  

_“There was nothing to talk about.”_  

_“You’re unbelievable, Lexa—are we still denying the fact that your letter exists?”_  

_“It’s a stupid letter that you shouldn’t even have read!”_  

_“Now how’s—what’s her name again—Clarke?”_  

_“Keep Clarke out of this.”_  

_“Meet the parents already, I mean—serious stuff.”_  

There’s shuffling, followed by dull thuds, like punches being thrown and collars getting ripped.  _Shit, really? Christmas?_ Clarke coughs out loud and fishes out her keys before dropping them on the concrete floor.  

The metal clatters loudly, prompting Lincoln to step out. “Is everything all right?”  

Lexa and Anya promptly emerge from their corner, dusting themselves off and straightening their collars. Anya fixes hers briskly before heading into the house without another word.  

“What the hell?” asks Lincoln, approaching worriedly.  

Lexa waves him off. “It’s fine—I’m fine,” she says. Clarke spies a ghost of a scratch running down her cheek, but she says nothing of it. “Go back inside. It’s fine.” 

Clarke stays rooted where she is, as Lincoln backs off and retreats into the living room, shutting the door softly after him.  

“How long were you—” 

“Not very,” Clarke says immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” 

Lexa touches her neck and winces as she rotates her shoulder. “You weren’t,” she says, sighing like she’s stretched something. “Fucking  _Anya._ ” 

Clarke puts a tentative hand on Lexa’s shoulder, like she’s asking,  _Is this okay?_ “Can I help with anything?” Feeling Lexa leaning into the touch, Clarke exhales relief. “Would you like to talk about what happened?” 

“No, not really,” says Lexa, though her tone is not unkind, just exhausted. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t—this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. It’s Christmas, we’re supposed to be—” Lexa trails off with a sigh. “I don’t know.  _Christmas-y_.” 

Clarke purses her lips, listening quietly as she waits for Lexa to end her ramble. Inside the house, she can hear Indra conversing with someone— _Octavia_ , she realizes, recognizing the second voice a couple of seconds later. Indra sounds a bit different—a little more affectionate.  _Familiar._  Clarke ignores the slight twinge of jealousy that grazes her heart.  

“And what exactly qualifies as  _Christmas-y,_  hm?” asks Clarke, following Lexa, who has since settled to sit on the stoop. When Lexa stays quiet, Clarke tries nudging her with her shoulder. “ _Hmmm?_ ” 

Lexa lets out a small laugh that Clarke decides to count as a win just the same. “I don’t know—certainly not almost coming to blows with your ex-best friend outside your mother’s house.” She fiddles with her the inside of her collar, like she’s trying to soothe an invisible ache. “It’s a mess, no?” 

“If you think Christmases ought to be mess-free, you should have seen some of the Christmas dinners I have gone to before,” says Clarke. “This has been  _easy._ ” 

“Really?” Lexa turns to look at her, chin perched upon her knee. “You’re not weirded out?” 

“If it makes you feel better, I once tagged along with a friend on their first Christmas together after her parents divorced, so. This? Definitely not in the same zip code as that one.” 

“Even if it’s with your pretend-girlfriend, whose holidays have just been hijacked by her ex-best friend, with whom she was once in love with?” 

Clarke tries not to flinch at the word  _pretend,_ pausing to measure her words. “When you put it that way, it sounds a lot weirder than it feels,” she just says, trying a smile. “Though from where I’m sitting, it’s not so bad.” 

The way Lexa looks at her at that—so soft, like she’s just seen the most beautiful thing—has Clarke so thrown that she has to bite down on her lip to keep from breaking out into an all-too-wide, embarrassing smile.  _How does she keep doing this?_  

_How does it always feel so new?_  

“Thanks Clarke,” Lexa says after a moment’s silence, reaching out to touch Clarke’s knee gently. “I’m glad you’re here with me today.” 

_You’re good for her._ Clarke tries to push Indra’s voice and its attendant guilt feeling out of her head.  _Focus._ “Thanks for having me over,” she replies, standing up and offering her hand to Lexa. “Walk with me? That was my original plan.” 

When Lexa wraps a warm hand around Clarke and lets herself be lifted off the step. “Sorry for the delay,” she says. And then, lighting up: “I think I know how to make it up to you.” 

Clarke just quirks her brow, intrigued. “Surprise me,” she challenges, keeping Lexa’s hand in hers. 

* 

The holiday home has been in Lexa’s family for decades, and Lexa remembers spending many summers and Christmases here, growing up. It’s a long drive out, but it’s always worth it—if not for the view, then definitely for Indra’s cooking.  

“She said the proximity to the sea makes the food better,” Lexa explains, walking side by side with Clarke through the wide deserted roads lined with bougainvillea in full bloom.  

“And is it true?” 

Lexa shrugs, laughing a little. “Maybe? I mean—holiday meals have always been quite extraordinary.” 

Clarke finds herself rubbing her belly absently at the memory. “I remember.” 

Lexa nods, walking on, hands tucked in her pockets. Clarke falls in step beside her, arm hooked loosely around Lexa’s throughout their lazy stroll. From a distance, Clarke can hear the waves crashing softly, the mid-afternoon sun glittering off the water.  

“After my father died, she—well. She just said she breathes so much better up here,” says Lexa, inhaling deeply.  

Clarke nods, familiar. Her mother has said something similar. “I think I know what she means,” she just says. Lexa turns to her, smile now a bit somber, and Clarke reaches out to her, wrapping a warm reassuring hand around Lexa’s bicep.   

“Yeah,” Lexa just says, looking out. They stop by the pier for a bit, if only to look out at the sailboats moored nearby, dancing on the water. “My father used to have a yacht.”  

“Oh?” Clarke hums, intrigued. “What was it like?” 

Lexa pauses for a bit, lost in thought. In that moment, Clarke would give  _anything_ to have a view inside Lexa’s mind. After a while, Lexa finally settles for the word,  _“Strange._ ” 

“Strange?” 

“Yeah. Like it were another lifetime entirely.” 

“I wish I already knew you back then,” says Clarke. “Must have been nice.” 

“My eighteenth birthday was held on that yacht,” Lexa says. “We were—” She trails off suddenly, perhaps remembering the people there—once here, now gone. Clarke almost regrets asking the first question. “ _Younger_. It was a long time ago. A different life.” 

A cool sea breeze comes in just then, and against better judgment, Clarke finds herself huddled closely to Lexa for warmth. Lexa lets her slip under her arm, rubbing at her shoulder idly. In the horizon, the sun begins to set.  

“We can wait for it if you want,” Lexa offers, sitting at the edge of the pier and taking Clarke with her. “Look at that sky.” 

Clarke looks up at the cotton-candy hues, utterly blown-away. “Wow,” Clarke whispers. “It’s beautiful.” When she turns to Lexa, she finds that Lexa has already turned away, a ghost of a smile at the corner of her lips, the sunset coloring her cheeks. 

If it hasn’t been apparent before, then it is at this moment, and painfully so.  

Maybe Clarke’s in for a heartbreak, after all.  

* 

When they start their walk back to the house, it is already dark. One by one, the street lights switch on, lining their path home. The early evening breeze is cool, but not too chilly; it has just enough bite to drive Clarke closer to Lexa, their hands entwined absently throughout.  

Indra is drinking coffee on the steps with Lincoln when they get home.  

“You just missed Anya,” Indra greets, tone flat and matter-of-fact. “But you’re just in time for dinner.” 

Clarke and Lexa exchange glances. “Dinner sounds good,” says Lexa, tapping Lincoln on the shoulder on her way into the house. Clarke follows suit, smiling wordlessly as she passed.  

Dinner is mostly uneventful. Lexa and Lincoln banter about sports, while Indra checks up on Aden’s schooling with Octavia. Clarke sits in the middle of it all, trying to absorb all the conversations all at once; trying to learn as much about this family as possible in such short window of time.  

Right then, Clarke feels a twinge in her chest.  _This time next year._ She ends the thought as quickly as it starts.  

“Clarke?”  

Clarke blinks, momentarily stunned at being addressed. “Yes?”  

“I was asking about the food,” says Lexa, smiling. “Sorry, we were talking shop a bit.” 

“The food is perfect,” says Clarke, smiling wider and shaking the vision out of her head. “Sorry I zoned out a bit—I swear, I tried keeping up with your sports things.” 

It’s Lincoln’s turn to laugh. “Octavia says the same thing all the damn time,” he says, winking as he stands, following Octavia into the kitchen to stow their plates, Aden tailing them excitedly.   

At the head of the table, Indra sits back, looking at them both. “ _Mom,_ ” Lexa says, breaking the quiet. “What?” There’s a small smile blooming at the corner of her lips; it matches that of Indra’s—a small, teasing smirk, nothing too blatant or open.  _A small secret,_ Clarke thinks, and she feels her heart do a little flip at the realization. She’s had a few of the same with her own mother.  

“ _Mom!”_  Lexa tries again, a little laugh escaping her lips. “You’re probably freaking Clarke out.” 

Indra feigns innocence. “Am I not allowed to look at my daughters?”  _Daughters, plural._ Clarke draws in a quick breath, sharp and audible. Her heart floats in a mix of tenderness and guilt, all at once. “I mean—I hope that’s okay, Clarke?” 

Clarke blinks, suddenly embarrassed. “Of course!” she replies quickly. “Sorry, I was just—I’m touched.”  

“I can see how good you two can be,” says Indra. “I’ve always been worried about this daughter of mine—” 

“ _Moooom.”_  

Indra shushes her with a raised finger. “—and I’m not getting any younger, so it truly delights my heart to hear that someone’s taking care of her.” 

Lexa’s eyes widen slightly at that, eyeing Clarke. Clarke tries not to acknowledge the apprehension she reads there. “I can take care of myself,” she says, looking down at her hands on the table.  

“I didn’t say you  _couldn’t_ ,” Indra counters. “The more, the merrier. Right, Clarke?” 

Clarke smiles, moving for Lexa’s hands and covering them with her own.  _Is she as nervous as I am?_ she wonders, tightening her hold slightly. “Of course,” she says, winking at Lexa for good measure.  

When she looks back at Indra, she’s smiling more openly now, satisfied. “Then that’s all I ask,” she says, before getting up. “You two should head upstairs and rest. Leave us to handle the dishes.” 

“Please, Indra—” Clarke starts to plead, but Indra would have none of it—a simple raise of her hand is enough for Clarke to swallow the rest of her words, chuckling softly as they move out of the dining room and toward the stairs leading to the bedrooms. 

“ _Rest,_ you two. Long drive tomorrow, yes?” Indra says. 

Beside her, Lexa stretches and groans, absently touching her nape. “Might as well,” she says, leaning in to kiss her mother good night. “See you in the morning, mom.” 

“Thank you for today, Indra. I had a lovely time,” says Clarke, coming in for a hug herself. “Good night.” 

“Good night,” says Indra, before going back to the kitchen.  

Once alone, Lexa lets out a long breath before facing Clarke, her shoulders noticeably sagging as she relaxes. Clarke can’t help the smile that crosses her lips as she reaches up to rub at Lexa’s elbow.  

“You okay?” 

Lexa nods. “Yeah,” she says, looking up. “I guess we should—” 

_Oh._ For the first time that day, Clarke feels suddenly self-conscious. Sure, they had talked about this ahead of time—there’s no way they’re getting separate rooms without arousing suspicion, and they’ve just gotten to  _Indra_. Clarke knows how important this is to Lexa, to keep up appearances.  _So you just have to power through this night then,_ she tells herself, taking a couple of steps up the stairs. 

When she looks back down, Lexa is still rooted at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her—she has a lot of questions, her eyes show as much, yet all that manages to escape her lips is a soft and uncertain, “Clarke?” 

_Oh, Lexa,_ Clarke just thinks, reaching back down with a hand.  _What would I do with you?_ “Come on,” says Clarke, gripping Lexa’s hand tighter. “Let’s go.” 

* 

Upon longer scrutiny, Lexa’s old room is even sparser than expected. Clarke shouldn’t have been surprised, but she is, sort of. Apart from the bed in the middle of the room, and the mostly vacant table pushed against the far corner, there’s little else—no posters on the walls that could be clues to young Lexa’s interests, or random framed photos of people outside of family.

It looks more like a slate wiped clean, Clarke just thinks, approaching the bed tentatively and sitting carefully on the edge of it, looking at the ceiling.  

“I put the bags in the closet,” says Lexa, closing the door behind her softly, before walking over and opening one closet door to show where she put Clarke’s overnight bag.

Clarke just nods and smiles, suddenly feeling a bit… _weary._   _The day taking its toll, probably,_ she thinks, trying to stifle a yawn and promptly failing. Expectedly, Lexa yawns back. The realization makes Clarke giggle, a little. “Sorry,” says Clarke, covering her mouth. “I didn’t think I was this tired.”

“It’s the bed,” says Lexa, still perched in place against the far wall, closet door between them still ajar. “Which reminds me—you should probably get ready to turn in.”

“I should.” Clarke stands, shakes the sleep out for the meantime, and approaches the half-open closet that contains her clothes. The move brings her closer to Lexa, who backs herself even further into the wall, as if to give Clarke more space. “What about you?” Clarke eyes Lexa curiously.

“What about me?”

“Aren’t you getting ready for bed?”

Clarke swears she sees the exact moment that Lexa’s face turns a shade redder with a blush, and she has to bite down on her lip to keep from laughing out loud. “I-uh. Sure,” says Lexa, looking away. “I mean. I’m not yet sleepy anyhow. You should go ahead.”

“Go ahead?” asks Clarke, hand on her hip. “You literally yawned back at me earlier.”

“That’s a completely ordinary biological response to any visible yawning,” Lexa counters. “Besides—I think you should, uh. Get comfortable. On the bed. First.”

_First. Is Lexa—what is she even suggesting?_ “Are you suggesting—where are you planning on _sleeping?_ ” Clarke asks, even more confused.

Lexa groans. “Clarke, _please,_ don’t make it harder than it has to be—”

“How is this harder— _oh._ ” Clarke blinks. _Shit._ At the brink of sleep, she feels her mind get back up, suddenly alert. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s not your fault, Clarke,” Lexa sighs. “I didn’t think this through. I mean—I did, but not this far.”

Clarke shakes her head, closing the closet door softly and crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. She looks up at Lexa, confused and apologetic. “Sorry,” she says again, patting the space beside her and beckoning Lexa to sit. “I think there’s room for two?” she adds softly.

“I think,” Lexa says just as softly, sitting herself beside Clarke, placing a careful hand on the bed between them. “Maybe I should take the floor.”

Clarke blinks, not quite believing what she just heard. “And if your mother walks in, middle of the night, and finds you there?” she asks.

Lexa scratches the back of her head in confusion. “Well, that’s just.” She pauses to make a face at Clarke, who can only be too glad to respond with a relieved laugh. “I suppose that would be awkward, yes.”

“We could lock the door—” Clarke pauses, trying to parse how Lexa looks even more mortified at the suggestion. “What, so you also _don’t_ want your mother to assume we’re having sex, either?”

“ _Clarke!_ ”

“ _What?_ ” Clarke finds her laugh loud and hearty, and she has to throw her head back at the force of it. On the bed, her hand finds Lexa’s and wraps around it warmly, glad to note that Lexa doesn’t pull away, not quite. “Your mother knows we’re dating. I’m pretty sure she already assumes as much, anyhow.”

Thankfully, after a moment’s silence, Lexa manages a laugh herself. “It’s just—I don’t want to force you into a situation that would make you uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable? Your bed’s anything but.”

Lexa eyes her knowingly. “You know what I mean.”

_Fine,_ Clarke thinks, moving to face Lexa fully, legs folded under her, both hands seeking Lexa’s. And then, lowering her voice a bit, she asks: “Is this—Do I make you uncomfortable?”

The question comes out rougher than intended; like she’s lost some sleep, but also like she doesn’t need any just yet, not really. She doesn’t mean for it to come across like it probably has—like a proposition, a suggestion, an invitation—but there it is, her voice betraying her through and through.

_Damn it._

As expected, the question flusters Lexa, who rearranges herself on the bed and swallows hard. She blinks repeatedly at Clarke, like she’s trying to make those five words make better sense together. At some point, Lexa tries to pull her hands away, but Clarke holds on firmly, not letting her shrink away from this; not letting her avoid the question.

“Do I?” Clarke asks again, breaking a long silence, still looking Lexa squarely in the eye.

“Do you what?” When Lexa speaks finally, it’s in a tag question of sorts, and her voice is so soft that Clarke has to lean in closer to hear better. _This isn’t helping,_ Clarke thinks. This close, she can smell the fainting notes of Lexa’s cologne from early that morning, still on her skin.

“Make you uncomfortable,” Clarke completes, staring at a neutral space on Lexa’s shirt, trying not to think about what’s underneath, how warm she must be there, and how the skin would feel under her hand—

_Oh god, stop that._  

“Of course not,” Lexa replies, after a long silent deliberation, and that snaps Clarke out of it promptly. She could only hope there is no blush on her face that betrays where her mind went _just now._   “Why would I be?”

“Exactly,” says Clarke, standing to move to her side of the bed, lifting the covers like that settles it, once and for all. _This can be done. Friends do this all the time._ “It’s just _sleep_ ,” she says, fixing her pillows and patting the mattress, trying not to sound like she’s talking to herself more than anybody else.

Lexa mirrors her after a couple of moments, heading to her own side and giving her pillow a proper pat herself. “Just sleep,” she echoes. And then, looking up at Clarke, “You can use the bathroom first.”

“Thanks,” Clarke says, picking up her sleep clothes from the foot of the bed and heading out without further word.

_A shower before bed doesn’t sound half as bad; the colder, the better,_ she just thinks, leaning against the bathroom door.

*

When Clarke returns to the room, Lexa is already looking soft in her shirt, reading in bed, her legs already under the sheets. She lifts her head at the sound of the door and smiles at Clarke, who feels a little weak on the knees at the sight.

“Hey,” says Lexa softly, closing her book and setting it down on her lap. “You all right?”

_You backed yourself into this corner,_ Clarke reminds herself, stepping closer to her side of the bed and climbing in, staying on top of the sheets. “Yeah,” she says. “You?”

“I was just reading,” she says, lifting the book to show Clarke the cover, and Clarke leans over to study it.

“Didn’t know you were a Shirley Jackson fan,” says Clarke. “Is it any good?”

Lexa re-opens the book to reveal the spread she had left her thumb in. “It’s quite nice,” she says, shoulder brushing against Clarke’s as she brings the page closer to her for a peek. “I mean, for a terrifying book, it’s beautifully written.”

“Is it, really? Terrifying, I mean.” Clarke leans into Lexa further, letting the warmth seep through her shirt. She follows Lexa’s fingers as they scan and flip through pages, perhaps looking for the perfect specimen of a paragraph to showcase.

“It’s a… muted sort of terror,” says Lexa, pausing to search for the right word. “Something you almost don’t catch at first pass. I find it intriguing, all these quiet horrors flitting about the pages. It’s almost like a game.”

“A hunt?”

Lexa hums in agreement. “Sort of, but you’re the hunted one, if that makes any sense.”

Clarke just nods, trying to scan through the current page, reading lazily while tucked into Lexa’s side, content and warm. _I could get used to this,_ she thinks, though she dashes the thought as quickly as it crosses her mind.

“Do you regularly scare yourself before going to sleep?” Clarke teases, poking Lexa’s side gently with a finger.

“Oh, trust me,” says Lexa, laughing softly. “I have never been as scared as I am, right this very moment.”

There’s a shudder to her voice that tells Clarke she’s no longer talking about Hill House, and it puts a shiver in Clarke’s spine in kind. 

_Damn it._

Clarke finds herself taking the book off Lexa’s hands and closing it, reaching past Lexa’s lap to leave it on the bedside table. The move puts her so _close_ , and Clarke has a half a mind to just straddle her altogether, and just see where it goes, restraint be damned.

“Clarke.” Lexa’s voice snaps her out of it, and when Clarke looks back at her, Lexa’s eyes are wide and full of questions. “What are you doing?”

_It’s just sleep,_ Clarke wants to say, but no words come out when she opens her mouth. Already she’s far too gone, a hand poised at the hem of Lexa’s shirt, as she closes the space between them with her lips.

 


End file.
